


Generation of Mirth

by chuutoku



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, F/M, Gen, M/M, Romance, Sports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuutoku/pseuds/chuutoku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Takao hadn't enrolled at Shuutoku? An AU in which Midorima plays ace alone and the team on everybody's lips -- besides Rakuzan -- is Touou. [ Temporary hiatus! ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. identical roles with one very important difference

**Author's Note:**

  * For [potentialfossil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentialfossil/gifts).



All is plush.  
  
\-- Rather, had been push. Midorima Shintarou lies still on top of his comforter, undoes his body’s stiffness by degrees, by imagining his stress dissipate: Shoulders first; then upper arms; his precious wrists and fingers; two cracks of the neck, which he’d forgotten; all punctuated by a half-hearted, ultimately inconsequential attempt at giving his legs and feet some respite from the pressure placed upon them. He exhales slowly, soundlessly. He feels himself settle into bed.  
  
Earlier that evening, Midorima had lost his first basketball game.  
  
He attributes his inner monologue’s staccato cadence to exhausted shock. He had tried and failed, and now would come the uncomfortable interim between this loss and Shuutoku’s next game -- no more, no less. He thinks. He repeats: _I did everything I could_. He says it once aloud, for permanence.  
  
“I did everything I could.”  
  
Shuutoku’s loss bore no comment upon his character -- or, more importantly, upon his skill. He had never failed before; had never left his team wanting; surely did not leave them wanting today -- but Shuutoku had been left wanting for _something_.  
  
 _Teamwork?_ Midorima scowls. _Hardly._ He berates himself for committing the logical fallacy of pitting a single event -- and a loss well within probabilistic expectation! -- against his middle school’s perfect win record, for putting more stock in an isolated incident versus a pattern. Seirin’s victory was no fluke, but it was not definitive. Midorima -- and Shuutoku -- had years of experience plated in gold, silver, bronze (-- mostly gold). Seirin had style, but it was not superior to Shuutoku’s -- or Midorima’s. The score had turned on the teams’ luck. (And for all Midorima knew, half of Shuutoku might’ve been born under Leo.)  
  
 _Bzzz. Bzzz._  
  
With a short sigh, Midorima retrieves his cell phone from the bedside table with two fingers. Aomine doesn’t text. Momoi wouldn’t bother. So it must be --  
  
from: Takahashi Kazuo  
to: Midorima Shintarou  
subject: Sorry :(  
  
 _Hey this is Takahashi Kazuo. I’m sorry you went home by yourself. I tried to find you when the senpais suggested we all get something to eat but they threatened to leave without me if I took too long, so I had to give up after checking the locker rooms. When I got back to school I found your number in the club directory, so I thought I’d apologize._  
  
 _Anyway. I know you took our loss as hard as the rest of us no matter what the senpais say. I’m sure we would’ve lost even more badly if you hadn’t played today._  
  
 _Well, text me if you ever need anything or want to hang out, okay? We freshmen should stick together!_  
  
\-- Shuutoku’s number 10 and fellow freshman point guard.

* * *

_“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the first match of the Inter-High tournament: Seirin High versus Touou Academy! Will Seirin’s basketball club -- only two years old, I can’t emphasize this enough! -- be able to hold its own against rising champ Touou? Two very different team philosophies clash under one roof tonight, folks! Place your bets! -- Except don’t do that because it’s highly illegal. Shut up, Suzuki, I know.”_  
  
Midorima stands at the back of the stadium. Momoi’s distinctive pink hair is easy to spot even from a distance where he can barely discern players’ numbers, much less their facial expressions. She flits up and down the length of the court, brings her hand up to her ear and down by her waist in quick, exasperated motions -- calling Aomine, Midorima’s sure.  
  
He scans the bleachers. Sure enough, Takahashi sits near the front next to Miyaji and Ootsubo. He ties his badly bleached copper hair into a ponytail that practically blends into Shuutoku’s team jacket, appears to check his cell phone -- for a text from Midorima? As if. Midorima has no interest in watching Takahashi’s middle school friend or his own once-teammates play where they can see him.  
  
“Midorimacchi?”  
  
He starts. How -- ?!  
  
“You know, it’s going to take a lot more than a pair of sunglasses to fool people with your hair and that... what is it today, a slab of tofu?”  
  
“A jack-in-the-box.”  
  
“Totally weird. Anyway -- here to see Kurokocchi, too?”  
  
“Don’t tell me you plan on joining me, Kise.”  
  
“Naturally!” Kise leans against the platform railing a comfortable distance from Midorima, rests his chin against the palm of his hand. “Who do you think will win?”  
  
“You won’t bet on my answer, I hope.”  
  
Kise looks at Midorima. “Did you just try to make a joke?”  
  
“It’s hard to say,” Midorima recovers, “but Seirin’s style is yet unpolished.”  
  
“Well, _I’ll_ bet on Seirin, then.” Kise grins. “If they win, you owe me dinner at the new sushi bar by Kaijou.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oh, come _on_ \-- ”  
  
Midorima pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It’s starting.”  
  
White faces black; Hyuuga and Imayoshi punctuate their teams’ bows by shaking hands. Momoi sits curled in on herself -- fingers worrying her lips, legs crossed tight -- next to Touou’s cool-guy coach, Harasawa Katsunori. Midorima observes Kagami swing his arms, bend his knees, glance at Kuroko -- already marked by Touou’s number 10. A small man quick on the uptake.  
  
“You’re not sitting with your teammates, Midorimacchi?”  
  
 _Unlike this blonde bimbo_ , Midorima thinks. “Clearly.”  
  
Kise blinks twice. “Why?”  
  
“I’m fine here.”  
  
“If you say so,” Kise sighs. “You should really make more of an effort to get to know your team, though. I know it’s hard for you to make an effort to get to know _anybody_ \-- I’ve always had a tough time understanding that when there are so many people who’d like to be your friend; how can you resist their attention? -- but that might’ve been part of the reason why Shuutoku lost agai -- ”  
  
 _“A few minutes into the first quarter and Seirin’s already getting shut down! What incredible pressure from Touou’s side, folks; we’ve seen -- well, tried to see -- crazy passes from Seirin’s number 11 during the tournament’s qualification matches and some amazing dunks from their number 10, but Touou’s 10 and captain just won’t let up, all while short an ace!”_  
  
“-- How do you know these things?” Kise asks, straightening up and running a hand through his hair.  
  
“It’s too early to draw any conclusions,” Midorima responds, “but it’s simple: Touou has more experience and Seirin can’t help but be nervous.”  
  
“I guess.”  
  
The first quarter ends without much fanfare; the second begins with Seirin coated in sweat and Touou cracking their knuckles. Midway through, Kise elbows Midorima and directs his attention to Touou’s bench.  
  
“About time!”  
  
If Midorima strains his ears, he thinks he can almost hear Momoi shouting herself hoarse at Aomine’s tardiness. _We told you not to be late for this game! You’re playing against Tetsu-kun and Kagami-san today! You can’t take this team lightly, Dai-chan, it’s --_  
  
They watch Aomine casually remove Momoi’s fists from their position on his chest, take a swig from a bottle handed to him by a benched player, survey the game and --  
  
“Is he grinning?”  
  
Midorima smirks. “Never a good sign.”  
  
“Well, now that Touou’s subbing Aominecchi in, Kurokocchi will definitely level up.” It’s as if Kise gloats for Kuroko in Kuroko’s stead sometimes. He contemplates the court with a smug expression, arms crossed.  
  
“I’m not so sure,” Midorima says. “Touou’s number 10 may have him under control for the time being.”  
  
And indeed, Seirin takes the opportunity to call a short time-out. They watch Seirin’s coach -- pixie-like and terrifying daughter of the former Japanese national basketball team player, Aida Riko -- exchange some words with their point guard, Izuki; direct her attention to Kagami, rile him up a bit; then place a hand on Hyuuga’s shoulder and point at Touou’s shooting guard number 9, Sakurai Ryou.  
  
“I like her,” Kise beams. “She’s such a trooper.”  
  
“More like the commander of her troops.”  
  
“Midorimacchi, you have to stop making jokes. You’re no good at them.”  
  
“Shut up, Kise.”  
  
He laughs at that.  
  
 _“As if last quarter wasn’t close enough, Touou’s ace finally decides to grace us with his presence -- and devestate Seirin with his skill! What’s his forte, Suzuki, streetball? It really shows, even thou -- oh, would you_ look _at that save by Seirin’s number 10, Kagami Taiga! He’s on fi-ya! Okay, I’m sorry, I’ll stop. Watch the rebound, watch the rebou -- flawless assist by Touou’s number 10 to Aomine Daiki, wow! That’s a combination to give Seirin’s Kagami and Kabuto -- oh, Kuroko? My bad, I meant Kuroko -- a run for their money, if not for this match!”_  
  
“Wow,” Kise whistles. “I haven’t seen Aominecchi make a play like that since he and Kurokocchi were partners at Teikou.”  
  
Midorima narrows his eyes, diverts his attention from Kuroko -- immobile on the court -- to Touou’s number 10, already back to marking him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Midorima’s phone buzzes twice.  
  
from: Takahashi Kazuo  
to: Midorima Shintarou  
subject: Come watch the game!  
  
 _Do you remember that former teammate I was telling you about? I was right about him even though I never saw him play again after he left my middle school’s basketball team! He just made the most INSANE play with Touou’s Aomine Daiki. I’ve memorized the name of YOUR former team’s ace, so you better commit mine to memory, too! It’s Takao Kazunari._  
  
A few minutes later:  
  
from: Takahashi Kazuo  
to: Midorima Shintarou  
subject: Hey wait a second  
  
 _Miyaji-senpai says he saw a dude with green hair standing next to a blonde guy when he went to use the bathroom. What’re you doing all the way up there?!_

* * *

“Leave Aomine alone, Wakamatsu,” Imayoshi drawls lazily. Half time sees most of Touou crammed into their locker room, damp towels draped across their shoulders and the aftertaste of Sakurai’s honey lemons in their mouths. “Has he ever given us cause for worry? You, on the other hand, never fail to make us think you might suffer an aneurism.”  
  
“Why the _fuck_ does that guy think he can just do whatever he wants?! The top of the court is _my_ territory, I -- ”  
  
“Put the bench down, sit on it, and be quiet or I’ll shove one of Momoi’s lemons in your mouth.” Without missing a beat, Imayoshi caps the water bottle he’d been drinking from and crouches to retie his shoelaces. “It’s not like there’s a problem even if Aomine positions himself badly, anyway. Takao can take care of that.”  
  
“Where is that midget?”  
  
Imayoshi stands, sighs. “Calming Momoi down, I’m sure.”  
  
Down the hall from Touou’s locker room, Momoi reviews Seirin’s data, legs tucked underneath herself. She shuffles scraps of paper back and forth between piles -- _that’s not necessary anymore; that was wrong; Sakurai especially needs to see this_ \-- and taps her fingers against floor marble when not tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears.  
  
“Coming along?”  
  
“Mm,” she nods, looks up to see Takao in Touou’s black, one hand clutching the towel thrown across his shoulder and the other extending a canned peach juice. “Thanks,” she says while he sits in front of her.  
  
“You’ll get wrinkles if you keep this up, Momoi-chan,” Takao grins, narrowly dodging Momoi’s crumpled-up data.  
  
“How about you tell Dai-chan to get his act together instead of making fun of me, huh?” Momoi retorts without bite, eyebrows raised.  
  
Takao shrugs, removes his hair clips. “I handle him on the court, you handle him off it. It’d be bad form if I took your job.”  
  
“ _What form?!_ ” Momoi snaps. “Dai-chan is the _definition_ of formlessness whether it’s during a game or in daily life! I’m sick of worrying, I’m tired of trying to get through to him, and I’m fed up with -- ”  
  
But Takao tunes her out, contemplates the space between his basketball shoes. It had taken him a few days at the start of spring term to get used to Aomine and Momoi’s belligerent dynamic, not to mention feel out his relationships with the rest of the team. He and Sakurai had been the only freshmen on Touou’s starting line-up. Aomine didn’t count; Aomine never counted; Aomine was an exception to every rule and a pain in every ass, but Takao couldn’t find the energy -- much less the endurance -- to hate him for it. Takao had a good enough time when they played together, anyway. At the start of every Touou game -- well before Aomine made his appearance -- Takao would work on loosening himself up, on becoming animal. Hawk to Aomine’s -- what, panther? He chortles to himself at the thought.  
  
“-- Are you listening?!”  
  
Takao exhales long and loud. “Yeah, yeah. It’s just -- have you ever thought you might need to, you know, jump him?”  
  
“ _What?!_ ”  
  
Takao smirks. Momoi’s face is the color of Kagami’s hair. “I get that you’re into Seirin’s shadow or whatever, I really do, and he’s great and everything, but Aomine’s a _catch_. Let’s face it, you have a better relationship with him than you do with Kuroko. I mean, do you even _have_ a relationship with Kuroko?”  
  
“ _We. Dated. In. Middle. School._ ”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter, Tak-kun!” Momoi downs the peace juice, wipes her mouth while maintaining her pout. Takao feels himself smile. “My love life is none of your business!”  
  
“But Aomine is.”  
  
“What’s your point?!”  
  
“They might be the same thing.”  
  
“ _Shu_ \-- ”  
  
“Yeah, please do shut up, both of you,” Imayoshi calls from Touou’s locker room. “Aomine’s with us. Meet us back on court in a couple minutes.”  
  
They stand. Takao watches Momoi shove the empty can and some stray pencils into her hoodie pocket, stick separate piles of paper into different colored folders, resolutely _not_ look at Takao as she begins to walk courtward. He sighs, and opts for placing a hand on her shoulder.  
  
“You know I’m joking, Momoi-chan,” Takao says. “I’m just trying to take your mind off the game.”  
  
She relaxes under his hand.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“It’s really not that bad, anyway,” Takao continues. “Your ex-boyfriend’s no good against my eyes, Aomine will probably pull his usual and we’ll end with a one-hundred point difference, the rest of the team’s doing well -- Seirin’s chances are slimmer than Wakamatsu’s patience.”  
  
Momoi’s mouth curls upward. “Right.”  
  
They cross the rest of the hallway in silence and soon join Touou on court. Momoi takes her place by their coach and shares her findings with him, movements poised and confident now that Touou’s entire starting line-up is present and accounted for. Takao acknowledges Aomine, ambles over to Kuroko, smirks when he notices that Kagami watches him like -- wait for it -- a hawk.  
  
“Yo.”  
  
Kuroko nods.  
  
“I’m surprised you don’t need a longer rest.”  
  
“I’m not tired.”  
  
“Well, I am,” Takao yawns. “I’m practically going to be on autopilot for the rest of this game. Did that ever happen to you when you played with these guys? The Generation of Miracles, I mean.”  
  
Kuroko raises his eyebrows.  
  
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you of all people know how fun it is playing with a loose fuse like this one,” Takao points behind him to Aomine -- or Kagami; he senses them standing in nearly the same spot, “but it’s not... what’s the word, fulfilling?” Takao laughs. “Is it weird that I think basketball should be fulfilling?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You might be the wrong person to ask,” he muses with a smile. “But at least I know you know what I’m talking about. We’re the same breed of player, Kuroko. We play identical roles with one very important difference -- ”  
  
The whistle blows.  
  
“-- you’re on a team while I hold together idols.” **  
**


	2. it was nice playing against you again

There’s much within Takao Kazunari’s capacity to tolerate: Conversation with Sakurai, peppered with apologies and self-deprecation; Wakamatsu’s temper, delicate as old eggshell; even playing small forward in lieu of point guard for Captain Imayoshi’s sake. Had someone cared to ask Touou’s players what they thought of their team before tonight, Takao would have answered that they could do with a little more cohesion, that’s all. _“I get that we’re a bunch of specialists, but there’s more to me than my sight, you know?”_ he’d have said, tapping a cheekbone. _“Anyway, it’d make using hawk eye a lot easier in-game if Ahomine would ditch the boobs for balls and come to practice.”_  
  
All joking aside, Takao has to draw the line somewhere, sometime.  
  
Once home -- after eating dinner with mother and sister; after their good-natured ranting about Rakuzan, Touou, and the afternoon’s inclement weather -- Takao closes his bedroom door behind himself, flops onto his futon, and makes a call.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Mo -- ”  
  
“Tak-kun!” He holds the phone a little farther from his ear. “Tak-kun, oh my -- I am so, so, so sorry, he called us at the last minute while we were busing over and we couldn’t say no. Please understand, it’s hard to explain our circumstances with -- ”  
  
“Do you already know what happened?”  
  
Silence.  
  
“We lost, Momoi.”  
  
“Yes,” she begins quietly. “I knew. I -- Tak-kun, are you angry? Please don’t be angry. I’m not sure where to start or how much to tell you, but Rakuzan’s captain -- Akashi Seijuurou, an old classmate -- is someone whose requests Dai-chan and I can’t refuse. I’ve told you we were all on the same basketball team, right? Well -- ”  
  
“You have,” Takao interrupts. He rubs his eyes -- still sore from the evening’s extertion -- with thumb and index finger. His mouth forms a thin, wide line. “But even if you hadn’t, I’d still know. How could any mere mortal from Keisei forget the gods from Teikou?”  
  
“Ah!” Takao can hear Momoi’s blush. “You’re right, we played your middle school on multiple occasions! But I don’t recall seeing you...?”  
  
“I retired early,” Takao says. “Anyway, I’m not angry. I’m just....”  
  
“Frustrated.”  
  
“Kind of....”  
  
“Disappointed.”  
  
“Well....”  
  
“Put off?”  
  
“Yeah, all three,” Takao sighs. “It really threw us -- well, it really threw _me_ for a loop when neither you or Aomine showed to our first Inter-High final -- ”  
  
“I’m sorry -- ”  
  
“-- and coach told us you wouldn’t be ‘gracing us with your presence,’ to borrow the standard phrase, for the duration of the game. We didn’t lose that badly, but it was the toughest opponent we’ve faced so far, and I felt....”  
  
Takao rolls onto his side.  
  
“Is this going to happen again in the future?”  
  
“.... I don’t know,” Momoi responds. “I’m sor -- ”  
  
“One Sakurai’s enough, Momoi-chan.”  
  
She giggles -- little more than a puff of air -- and Takao hears her shift the phone to her other ear. “Thanks for your patience with us, Tak-kun. And hey, you have to admit that even without me and Dai-chan, Touou holds it own! I think that’s what Akashi-kun wanted to test today, the caliber of his team and ours without their aces. After what Dai-chan and I told him today, he said he would try to organize some friendlies between us and other schools around Tokyo before summer training starts. I think the first team we’re playing is one of the Three Kings of Tokyo, Shuutoku High.”  
  
“Shuutoku?” Takao sits up, cracks his neck. “A friend of mine goes there.”  
  
“So does one of ours!”  
  
They say goodnight after making plans for tomorrow.  
  
What else can Takao do except smile and work with what he’s given? What else can he say other than whatever lightens the mood and develops _some_ semblance of a friendship with one of his teammates? It would be a miracle -- pun intended; call it a coping mechanism -- if Momoi understood his feelings when she’s worked with stars all her life; as unlikely and welcome as Takao’s partner coming down from Touou’s roof, walking onto its court, and working on plays with him at practice rather than winging them during games.

* * *

“Don’t even _think_ about it.”

“I’m not, I’m not!” Aomine insists, but Takao sees what Momoi can’t in spite of her warning: Two stops away from Shuutoku, their ace _still_ asks himself what bra size the girl by the subway doors wears; how it compares to her less attractive but more well-endowed friend; and whether, philosophically speaking, sacrificing a pretty face for some more to handle would be worth it were he given the chance to --

Takao feels Aomine tap his back. “Oi, Takao,” he whispers, nods to the pair with his head. “Well?”  
  
“Well,” Takao humors him, “since you bothered to come, I _guess_ I could sic hawk eye on -- ”  
  
“ _You, too?!_ ”  
  
“Oh, you heard me, Momoi-chan?” Takao snickers, looks Momoi up and down. “If you want my honest opinion, Aho-sama, the girl with the biggest bust here is -- ”  
  
“-- Totally irrelevant. Come on, we’re getting off.”  
  
 _Leave it to Touou’s point guard to time his interjections well_ , Takao thinks, and pretends not to notice Aomine check out the chicks by the entrance one last time nor Momoi clutch her bag to her chest.  
  
At Shuutoku’s gates, a tall, blonde third year greets them in his school’s trademark orange. Takao watches him size Touou up while doing introductions; Miyaji returns the smile plastered to Imayoshi’s face with one as fine as the blade of a guillotine. _Again_ , Takao sighs, and turns his attention to Shuutoku’s old, retrofitted buildings, the after school stragglers mingling between club meetings and their commute home. He comes to the conclusion that he likes the boys’ high-collared uniform. _Better than boring blue blazers, at least._  
  
Not long after changing in a spare locker room, Touou meets Shuutoku on court -- and Takao finds his face pressed tightly against a white jersey.  
  
“ _Takao!_ It’s been ages! Oh, sorry, can you breathe? I always forget you’re such a shortie.”  
  
“You bleached your hair again, Kazuo,” Takao grins, rubbing his nose once Takahashi lets him go. “Are you seriously still going for the visual kei look?”  
  
“I don’t know why it’s not working, man,” Kazuo says. “Still no band, still no girl. What gives?”  
  
“Your guns aren’t effeminate enough for either of them.”  
  
As Kazuo laughs, Takao asks, “Wanna go somewhere after the game and catch up?”  
  
“I would, but my mom’s gonna kill me if I nearly flunk my history test a second time. You’ve still got my number, though, right? Text me sometime when you’re not surrounded by monsters.”  
  
Takao raises his eyebrows and simpers, turning his head towards Touou’s bench for the first time since catching Kazuo’s attention. Monsters indeed. Sakurai doublechecks that he brought his honey lemons lest Aomine abandon Touou at halftime; Wakamatsu stares down Shuutoku’s biggest guy, their power forward, while Imayoshi talks to Touou’s coach; and Aomine --  
  
Takao pivots around, thumb pointing behind him.  
  
“ _He’s_ on your team?!”  
  
“Who?” Kazuo follows Takao’s finger, chuckles nervously when he sees Aomine glaring at Shuutoku’s ace while Momoi exchanges some words with him. “Oh, Midorima, yeah. Shuutoku got a little taste of the Teikou rainbow, too. I keep trying to talk him, but he’s not really the social type. Yours doesn’t look that friendly, either, to be honest. I hope he doesn’t beat anybody up. Takao?”  
  
“I’m listening,” Takao says. A smirk splits his face in half.  
  
“Yikes,” Kazuo whistles, smiling. “You’re starting to look like a monster, too.”  
  
“I hadn’t known I’d get to pay a due I owe today, that’s all.”

* * *

“Midorima! Stop chatting up your former teammates and huddle or I’ll dye your hair the same color as that little shit’s from Kaijou!”  
  
He joins Shuutoku by their bench, opposite Miyaji. Not that Midorima _actually_ believes Miyaji would apply a pineapple to Midorima’s head until yellow overtook green, but it never hurts to play it safe, and he’s relieved for the excuse to avoid Momoi’s torrent of questions. Takahashi swings an arm around Midorima’s shoulders as Miyaji begins to speak; he resists the impulse to remove it and pays attention.  
  
“We have a couple things to watch out for today,” Miyaji says. “You can bet on your -- whatever you brought today, a tumbler? did it seriously have to say ‘#1 Mom’ on it to be effective? -- that number 4 and number 9 won’t leave you alone for a second, Midorima. If one’s not covering you, the other will be. Coupled with number 10’s eyesight, it’ll be a mir -- no, I’m not going there -- it’s unlikely you’ll so much as graze the ball for the duration of the game.”  
  
“But that’s where I come in, right?” Takahashi points to himself in such a way that he puts Midorima in a chokehold. “Even though I’m not used to the point guard position yet, my specialty at Keisei was following up defensive fouls with out-of-bound throw-ins that would give us back our offensive edge.”  
  
Ootsubo nods. “We might be on the defensive for a little while, but once we get into the flow of offense, Touou will become less confident. Their defense isn’t as strong, especially in comparison to ours, and I can’t imagine how they’ll be able to stop your shots once they’re in the air, Midorima.”  
  
 _‘They’ may not be able to, but Momoi surely can._  
  
As if sensing Midorima’s stray thought, Miyaji asks, “Anything else to add? On tall, dark, and handsome over there, maybe?”  
  
“It’s useless to predict Aomine,” Midorima says, index finger pushing glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And in all likelihood, Touou’s manager has already anticipated that we would use this strategy and informed her team.”  
  
“You’ve been a great help.”  
  
Midorima glances at Miyaji. “Just pass me the ball. The rest is mathematics.”  
  
They congregate on court.  
  
Seconds after tip-off -- an easy win for Aomine against a player like Miyaji -- an epiphany comes to Midorima: Touou will not lose this afternoon. Their tournament history may be as short as Seirin’s, may even appear lackluster given that they failed to qualify for any major competitions until the previous year, but the sheer strength and polish of Touou’s current style _caricatures_ Shuutoku’s traditional approach. Persevering offense, steadfast defense, and a mastery of the basics, when coupled with the accuracy of Midorima’s three-pointers, should guarantee Shuutoku’s victory nine times out of ten. But against a team like Touou....  
  
Midorima had read some articles on their comeback in the weeks leading up to the Inter-High final. He hadn’t gone to see it himself, of course; couldn’t care less, knowing in advance that Akashi, Aomine, and Momoi would be absent. Touou’s just another collection of aces without the trio at its core. But combine Momoi’s ability to read players and forsee their progress with Takao’s courtwide field of view and precise passes, and Touou’s band of basketball geniuses have more than unshakeable faith in the originality and skill of their resident idiot: They have a _real connection_ to him. According to one commentator: _Think of Touou as the demon from your worst nightmares. Their manager and coach comprise the head, their power forward’s its heart, and their small forward’s the nervous system that ensures Touou’s pack of devils moves like a unit, like something bigger than itself. There’s no doubt every piece of Touou’s team could pack a punch on its own, but together -- kind of reminds you of Teikou, huh?_  
  
 _Well put, Suzuki_ , Midorima had thought.  
  
The friendly runs like clockwork until the third quarter, when Touou -- its offense in tip-top shapelessness; all confidence in its defense rekindled by Momoi’s predictions at halftime -- secures a twelve-point lead.  
  
“Ah, you know, I feel kind of bad for you,” Imayoshi starts, somewhere near Midorima’s right. He jogs back to Shuutoku’s basket as Imayoshi talks. “Even _I_ think it doesn’t make sense that a team like mine should beat a team like yours. But you’ve realized it, too, haven’t you? ‘Chaos is the natural order of the world,’ or something along those lines.”  
  
It’s at these lengths when Touou’s compulsion to gloat must become intolerable to them, Midorima supposes. Wakamatsu throws an air pass to Takao, who -- catching the glint of Imayoshi’s glasses -- narrowly avoids Ootsubo, Kimura, and brings the ball to his hands.  
  
Imayoshi exposes his teeth.  
  
“And with that -- ”  
  
Midorima watches Imayoshi set himself up for a shot, but sees through his feint; as Imayoshi transitions into a pass toward Aomine, Midorima steals the ball, delivers his sentence.  
  
“-- You continue to fall one step short of true excellence.”  
  
He ducks past Sakurai and Takao easily. It’s Aomine -- languorously shifting his weight from foot to foot, gaze cycling between the ball, their surroundings, and Midorima’s eyes -- that gives Midorima trouble just before crossing onto Touou’s side of the court. Another instance of the familiar tautology: _He’s fast._  
  
Regardless. Midorima crouches.  
  
“You wouldn’t,” Aomine says.  
  
“You’re right,” Midorima replies. “Not from here.” Barely sliding past Aomine, he finally lets the ball loose in a high arch from the court’s center. The game stills. Midorima glances at Momoi -- _why didn’t you read my data, Dai-chan? I knew Midorin would do something like that, I knew he would from the beginning of the first quarter, he was just biding his time_ \-- and hears an appreciative whistle as the ball grazes the net and lands in Wakamatsu’s hands.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, the friendly finishes with a respectable single-digit difference. It stings regardless.

* * *

In the middle of Midorima’s post-game shower, the familiar ditty of Japan’s most popular cell phone provider breaks the silence of Shuutoku’s locker room.  
  
 _If Takahashi’s calling to say he forgot something --_  
  
He checks the caller ID. Without hesitation, Midorima wraps a towel around his waist and begins drying his hair with another, haphazardly holding the phone against his ear with his shoulder.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
“Is this a bad time, Shintarou?”  
  
“Not at all. It’s been a while, Akashi.”  
  
“Hasn’t it.” Midorima hears the hard _click_ of Shogi tiles on the other line. He slips into his school uniform as Akashi continues. “How did your game with Touou go today?”  
  
“Well.” Midorima places the call on speakerphone as he buttons his jacket. “You chose a good team for Aomine.”  
  
“So Satsuki told me,” Akashi says. “Are you still at school?”  
  
“I’m leaving soon,” Midorima replies, bringing the phone back to his ear. Silence settles between them against the phone’s static, the sounds of Shogi pieces on wood and tape winding around fingers. Midorima considers what questions he might ask: _How are you? How do Tokyo and Kyoto compare? Which do you prefer?_ After struggling for more, he finally chooses the easiest.  
  
“Ho -- ”  
  
Too late.  
  
“Well, be careful on your way home, Shintarou. I look forward to seeing you soon.”  
  
Their call disconnects as Midorima hums his agreement. In calculated motions, he replaces the phone in his pocket, slings his bag over his left shoulder, turns off the locker room’s lights. As Midorima exits, he notices that Takahashi _had_ forgotten something: His textbook for English language, the only course Takahashi isn’t close to failing, thank heavens. The thought distracts Midorima; he spots the figure leaning against the outer wall of Shuutoku’s locker room only once he’s turned the corner and nearly collided with it. Fortunately, the other boy had glanced up from his cell phone just in time to scoot out of the way, and the expression on his face -- previously contorted into a mixture of disgust, boredom, and impatience -- reminds Midorima of a lottery winner.  
  
“No way! Midorima Shintarou? And I was starting to think I was the only person left in this damn building, too! I guess today’s my lucky day. Sorry to ask you this when we’ve only just met, but could you lend me a hand? Doesn’t have to be your shooting one.” He has the gall to smirk. “Wouldn’t want it to perform a task beneath its dignity.”  
  
“Touou’s Takao Kazunari, is it?” Midorima’s glare turns into surprise when the other boy’s eyes widen. _Did I get it wrong?_ “Did you get left behind?”  
  
“I told them to go ahead without me,” Takao recovers. “I thought I’d call my dad and ask him if he wants to have dinner together, since he lives in this part of town, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how to get any reception at your school.”  
  
“It’s because you’re standing in a corridor,” Midorima sighs. This idiot. “Because of how Shuutoku’s buildings have been retrofitted, you can only place calls in certain rooms or outside.”  
  
“Huh! Well, I guess that makes sense....” Takao trails off. Midorima waits for him to wander away, and takes it as his cue to leave when Takao continues to stand in place and stare at his high school’s club posters.  
  
Midorima only manages a few steps forward before Touou’s number 10 begins to walk beside him.  
  
“So how’d you know my name?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
The infernal smirk returns.  
  
“Did Kazuo talk to you about me?”  
  
“He _texted_ me about you,” Midorima corrects him, and Takao’s laugh echoes in the hallway as they emerge outside.  
  
“Earlier today Kazuo told me you don’t listen to a thing he says!”  
  
“I don’t, but it’s difficult to ignore written messages before one’s read them.”  
  
“Wow, are you kidding -- ” Midorima watches Takao wipe the happy tears from his eyes at a short distance, frowns when the other boy holds up a hand. “Hold on a second, let me call my dad. Don’t move.”  
  
Midorima adjusts his messenger bag.  
  
“Hey. I’m fine, how’re you. Nah, I was wondering if you’re off work yet. We played a team in eastern Tokyo today.”  
  
As Midorima’s about to head home, Takao turns on his heel and shoves his free hand in his pocket.  
  
“Well, I see them practically everyday. I just didn’t feel like.... No, it’s not that. They had their own stuff to do. And I would’ve, too, if you’d -- I’m kidding, I understand. Next time, dad.”  
  
Midorima’s not sure what keeps him. The fact that the boy had seemed reserved for a moment, when minutes earlier he’d addressed himself to Midorima with such familiarity; the unspoken sentences shoved in the pauses of his conversation with his father -- about Touou? his (divorced?) family? something else entirely?; how severely his personality appeared to clash with his team’s philosophy. But when Takao flips his phone closed and turns toward Midorima -- the disbelief on Takao’s face transforming into delight -- Midorima knows Takao hadn’t expected he’d stay put.  
  
“Well, third time’s the charm. Are you free tonight?”

* * *

To Midorima’s surprise, Takao knows his way around Shuutoku’s neighborhood. It takes them ten minutes to reach a hole-in-the-wall noodle joint unfamiliar to Midorima, a consequence of busing home in the opposite direction and not caring to explore. The restaurant is dim, cozy, and apparently popular. Its hostess leads them to a wooden booth by a small window.  
  
“The usual?” She smiles at Takao as she serves them tea.  
  
“Please,” Takao nods, and looks at Midorima expectantly.  
  
“Miso ramen,” he says. The hostess glances once more at Takao before seating another set of customers and bringing their orders to the kitchen.  
  
“I used to come here a lot when I was a little younger,” Takao explains. Observing Midorima curiously as the other rummages through his bag, Takao continues. “Normally I’m the kind of guy who always tries something new, but this place is different. You made a good choice, though. That’s what my sister gets. Uh, does that say ‘#1 Mom’ on it?”  
  
“It’s today’s lucky item for Cancers,” Midorima says while unscrewing the tumbler’s lid and pouring his tea into it. Takao’s cheeks inflate to the size of blowfishes’.  
  
“You’re joking.”  
  
“Why would I be joking?” Midorima takes a delicate sip.  
  
At which point Takao can’t contain himself any longer. His laughter matches the volume of the other customers’ slurping. “Wow, I didn’t think you’d be such a _weirdo_!”  
  
Long used to comments like these, Midorima remains silent and regrets -- for what must be the twentieth time and counting -- getting roped into dinner with Touou’s small forward.  
  
“Well, if that’s the case,” Takao calms down, “you and I are going to get along really well. I don’t know if you can tell yet, but I’m a freak, too.”  
  
“You don’t say.”  
  
Takao grins. “And here’s the clincher: I’m a Scorpio.”  
  
This actually gives Midorima pause. He places his tea tumbler to one side and reconsiders his dinner partner.  
  
“You believe in that sort of thing?”  
  
“Hell no,” Takao laughs. “But my mom went through a phase when she was super into it. She figured out our entire family’s birth charts and took them to an astrologist for analysis. I guess she ran out of ways to deal with my dad? Anyway, that’s how I know. Mom’s a Pieces, dad’s a Sagittarius, and Tsubame’s a Virgo.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Midorima returns to drinking his tea just as the hostess brings them their food. She stares at Midorima for a moment before turning to Takao again, a hand on her hip.  
  
“How come I never see you around here anymore? Last time, you told me you’d be coming in more often!”  
  
“Ahh, well, that’s what I thought,” Takao says, pulling his chopsticks apart. “The Touou transfer was kind of last minute. Sorry, nee-san.”  
  
He catches Midorima gaping at him once she leaves, taped hand and chopsticks suspended over bowl.  
  
“Yeah,” Takao chuckles awkwardly. “I was supposed to attend Shuutoku, but the situation escalated pretty quickly. Mom didn’t even want to live in the same area of Tokyo as my dad anymore. Since I’m closer to her and my sister and didn’t want to commute much every day, enrolling at Touou just seemed like the most reasonable thing to do.”  
  
Takao falls silent as they dig into their dishes. In spite of himself, Midorima relishes the broth’s complex flavor, and his number of regrets that night dwindles slightly to nineteen.  
  
After a few minutes, Takao speaks again.  
  
“Can I be honest with you?”  
  
Midorima looks up from his noodles with a look like, _As if you haven’t already been this entire evening._  
  
“I wish I’d gone to your school,” Takao says. He picks what’s left of the seaweed off of his soba, chews it slowly. “It would’ve been nice to play basketball and go to class with Kazuo again. Your team looks scary, but -- not the same type of scary as Touou. I think I would’ve liked it.”  
  
It dawns on Midorima then.  
  
“You don’t like Touou?”  
  
Takao shrugs. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t complain. It’s totally different from my middle school team, though.”  
  
“But that said,” Takao continues, dipping noodles in sauce, “shadowing your friend is pretty fun. He never seems like he enjoys it, though. Not really. It’s weird. And it’d be nice if Imayoshi-senpai stopped pissing off other teams before we even start playing them. Momoi-chan’s great, too, but I can tell being our manager stresses her out, however much she loves it. I guess Aomine and I don’t help her there because we never read her reports, but.... Wow, look at me go! My bad.”  
  
“Well,” Midorima starts after a short pause, “from what I’ve seen and experienced, you’re all doing quite well.”  
  
He leaves the _Isn’t that all that matters?_ unsaid, but Takao feels it anyway. He smiles.  
  
“You’d say something like that, yeah.” Finished with his plate, Takao puts his elbow on the table and props his head up with one hand. “So how’s Shuutoku?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“.... Uh huh.”  
  
Midorima stops eating. “What?”  
  
“I don’t know, the look on your face when you said that.”  
  
“What about it?”  
  
“Hm. I don’t think you like Shuutoku, either.”  
  
“What’s it to you?”  
  
“You’re so defensive!” Takao sniggers. “Nothing, I guess. Let’s talk about something else.”  
  
They exit the restaurant a half hour later having split the check. Takao stretches once they’re outside while Midorima cups his warm tumbler between both hands, which the hostess -- all head-shaking aside -- had graciously refilled for him. It surprises Midorima when Takao shoves a piece of paper in his jacket pocket before heading home.  
  
“Call me sometime.” Takao grins. “It was nice playing against you again.”  
  
As Midorima retraces his steps to Shuutoku alone, he frowns and tries to remember -- had he misheard Takao? Had they ever met on a basketball court before today? _Surely Kazuo would’ve mentioned it_ , Midorima thinks.  
  
In any case, Midorima had been gradually coming to a decision. That he and Takao might ever face each other during a game again would be unlikely. Accepting this fate had been easy; bringing it up with Akashi would prove difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my precious potentialfossil for talking basketball strategy with me! (What kind of a username is that, honestly?)
> 
> If I recall correctly, neither Akashi, Aomine, nor Murasakibara played at Inter-High. Because Momoi is considered a member of the Generation of Miracles, I assume that she wouldn't have attended the final match, either.
> 
> "Tumbler" is a shout-out to Tumblr (sorry, sorry, my spirit animal is Izuki Shun) and "#1 Mom" is a reference to Midorimama.
> 
> Because this may have caused confusion: The hostess at the restaurant isn't Takao's sister; Takao simply refers to her as "nee-san" because she's a young woman.


	3. i can't let you do that

Midorima’s end-of-July trip to Kyoto marks his second stay in Japan’s ancient capital. The first had been with his parents and grandmother some five years ago. They had decided -- for a change of pace, while his grandmother could still tolerate two-and-a-half hour train rides -- to enjoy that year’s _hanami_ there. Midorima has fond memories of sitting with his grandmother under a cherry blossom tree and sipping warm _oshiruko_ , of watching his mother and father talk horticulture while splitting a slice of cake. But this time, Midorima travels alone, accompanied by a small stack of summer homework, a spare change of clothes, and the day’s lucky item: A plastic model of a chestnut horse. _A gift for Akashi tomorrow_ , Midorima supposes.  
  
He mulls over the weekend’s itinerary while fiddling with his lucky pencil in his left, tapeless hand, the first of several pre-calculus worksheets still half-finished. First, taking the taxi Akashi had arranged from Kyoto Station to his home; the inevitable shogi game after dining out (at Akashi’s expense); going to bed and waking up early for breakfast, for tea; perhaps a second shogi game, perhaps a short trip to Rakuzan; and finally the long walk back to the station following lunch (Midorima’s treat, only fair).  
  
It’s only when the taxi parks in front of Akashi’s house -- a gated, two-story structure surrounded by greenery -- that Midorima takes his thinking and fidgeting and rethinking and fidgeting some more for what they are:  
  
“Nervous at the sight of an old friend, Shintarou?” Akashi greets him at the door. “But I should know better than to ask.”  
  
Midorima swallows, trades his bag between hands. “Perhaps we should play before dinner.”  
  
“Yes, I thought you might say that.”  
  
Shogi board and two cups of hot tea wait for them in Akashi’s living room. They tuck their legs underneath themselves at their respective sides of the low table. Excepting one’s sips of tea while the other strategizes and the snaps of shogi tiles, their usual silence settles between them: A pattern so predictable it borders on ritual. It was a welcome respite from the rowdiness of their teammates in middle school; now, it calms Midorima down.  
  
The inevitable confrontation aside -- it’s nice, Midorima thinks, to be in Akashi’s company again. What a pity he can’t delay their conversation indefinitely. As the game enters its middle phase some forty-five minutes later, he meets Akashi’s expectant look with a mutter instead of a move.  
  
“Akashi -- ”  
  
“I noticed.” Akashi smiles, sets his tea to the side. “You’re thinking of resigning from Shuutoku’s basketball team, aren’t you?”  
  
“-- It’s a possibility.”  
  
“You don’t need to frame it so weakly. I understand it’s a probability at this point, given your thought process and the state of your team. Look at me.”  
  
Midorima pulls his attention from Akashi’s fingers to his eyes.  
  
“For you, this game is a hobby. A healthy, productive way to while away time that you would otherwise spend on your studies, your books, or your music. When you discovered you had a natural aptitude for it -- as you did for piano -- you thought, _Why not? Joining the basketball team both increases my chances of improving this skill and introduces a regimen of physical exercise to my daily life that would otherwise be absent. It would be foolish of me to waste this gift._ Am I correct so far?”  
  
“Of course,” Midorima says.  
  
“In some sense, the feeling that prompted you to stop your finger-taping is my responsibility,” Akashi continues. “I suggested Shuutoku for you, after all. Its style seemed best suited to your personality and approach to the sport, and it was impossible that we would all attend the same school again given Ryouta and Daiki’s grades and the fact that Atsushi’s family planned to move to Akita.”  
  
“Do you think it would have been best for us to continue playing on the same team?”  
  
“It’s useless to wonder,” Akashi says. “What we’re discussing today is whether it would be best for you to continue playing at all.”  
  
Midorima massages his fingers as he watches Akashi refill their cups.  
  
“Clearly, you don’t think so,” Akashi starts. “Less time on court means more time in the library for maintaining your grades and getting a head start on university entrance examination studying. Medical school is no hobby for you, Shintarou. It’s the lifestyle you chose for yourself when you were a child.”  
  
“But you disagree.”  
  
“I do.” Akashi smiles again. “We still depend upon your participation. Tetsuya, Satsuki, myself. All of us. When you made first string at Teikou, you tied our fates to yours. We may no longer play together, but our improvement continues to depend upon each other. Can you in good conscience quit Shuutoku’s basketball team and jeopardize our growth?”  
  
Midorima returns his attention to the shogi board.  
  
“Think on it,” Akashi says. “I hope you’ve worked up an appetite. We should be having dinner in half an hour.”

* * *

Touou’s flurry of summer friendlies ends with their team undefeated and their game play unchanged. _If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right? Chin up, Takao_ , Imayoshi had said -- and Takao keeps his chin up, alright, but not at such a height that Captain might consider it condescending.  
  
Takao had looked forward to attending Touou Academy. Not as much as Shuutoku, of course -- can’t beat a brand name with a rising star -- but the school’s structure (or lack thereof) had piqued his interest. Coursework determined by a student’s curiosity and aptitude rather than arbitrary graduation requirements; classes taught in different rooms by different teachers at different times to different groups of students; a student council so decentralized that clubs and sports teams managed their affairs almost autonomously -- Takao had anticipated loving that freedom. Yet oddly enough, such an excess of individualism had proved (at best) disappointing and (at worst) exhausting in his first term of high school. Often, he felt neither challenged nor engaged.  
  
“You’re telling me,” Aomine yawns when Takao says as much at the beginning of August. “Is our little heart-to-heart done?”  
  
“Whenever you get off your ass and come to practice, yeah,” Takao says. He leans against the wire mesh of the school roof fence, watches Aomine sit up and scratch the back of his head with one hand while plucking his cell phone out of his pocket with the other.  
  
“Tch. Satsuki again,” Aomine mutters. He tosses Takao the phone. “You talk to her. Don’t think of getting cute and saying ‘only if you play basketball with me,’ either, ‘cause I already accepted her call.”  
  
“Touché,” Takao mouths as he brings the phone to his ear. “Momoi-chan?”  
  
“Tak-kun?” Her surprise quickly gives way to a sigh. “Are you trying to convince Dai-chan to come down from the roof again?”  
  
“Hey, one of us has to do it.” Takao smiles wryly as Aomine slinks groundwards. He focuses on the silhouettes of adjacent buildings; Aomine covers his face with a discarded magazine, stretches, and tucks his hands behind his head. “What’s up?”  
  
A second of silence, then a long, resigned exhale.  
  
“Akashi-kun called,” she says.  
  
Takao waits.  
  
“You know, I didn’t agree with him when he said we should all split up after Teikou. Not for a minute. Maybe we couldn’t have done anything about Muk-kun, but Ki-chan would’ve followed Dai-chan to Touou in a heartbeat, and I’m sure Tetsu-kun would have, too, if he hadn’t -- ”  
  
“Fuck, are you still on the phone, Takao?”  
  
“You’d know without interrupting the conversation if you bothered to look, Ahomine! -- Sorry, what were you saying?”  
  
“-- That in spite of what happened, Tetsu-kun and I have the same wish. We... just really want to play with our friends as a team again. But,” Momoi swallows; when she speaks again, her voice gains edge, “that’s never been Akashi-kun’s priority.”  
  
Takao had thought as much. Rather than saying so, he lets Momoi collect her thoughts.  
  
“I... don’t want you to get the wrong impression, Tak-kun. Akashi-kun’s a special person. We all care about him very much... and he cares about us, too, but his way of showing that is different from most peoples’. When you like someone, you want to share things and spend time with them, right?”  
  
“Of course,” Takao says, runs his fingers along the mesh of the fence.  
  
“Things like that aren’t necessary for Akashi-kun. What’s most important to him is that we, well, grow as individuals.”  
  
A short pause. Takao grips wire, treads carefully.  
  
“How does he know what’s best for you?”  
  
“He doesn’t,” Momoi says. “ _Clearly_ he doesn’t. Tetsu-kun seems happy at Seirin, but he _chose_ to go there. Ki-chan’s doing well, too, even after losing to Dai-chan at the Inter-High final, but he was always the most charismatic member of our team and would’ve done alright anywhere. As for the rest of us? Muk-kun doesn’t like basketball any more now than he did in middle school; you’re Dai-chan’s partner, I don’t need to remind you of what you already know; and now Midorin wants to quit Shuutoku -- ”  
  
“Ah, hold on, Momoi-chan,” Takao manages. “That’s a lot to process. Midorima wants to quit Shuutoku?”  
  
Takao hears Aomine stir as he switches the phone from one ear to the other.  
  
“Yes! Akashi-kun says he and Midorin talked about it when Midorin visited him in Kyoto a few weeks ago. I don’t really understand it myself, but I think it might have something to do with Midorin’s obsession with excellence. He and Akashi-kun are similar in that respect: They really value self-improvement. I remember when we were together at Teikou, Midorin would practice the most out of all of us, all by himself....”  
  
“.... And that’s not working for him anymore?”  
  
“I don’t know what to do, Tak-kun,” Momoi finishes. Takao hears fabric rustle, imagines Momoi pinching the bridge of her nose while she scrunches up her face to distract herself from the sting in her eyes.  
  
“Well, I think I might have an idea.” Takao smiles. “Consider Midorima one less thing you’ll have to worry about, okay?”  
  
“Huh? What are you going to...?”  
  
“Don’t sweat it,” Takao says, sticks his free hand in his pocket. “I’ll see you in a bit.”  
  
He hangs up, retrieves his own cell phone. After helping himself to Aomine’s contact list, Takao shuts the lids of both phones closed and unceremoniously tosses Aomine’s onto Aomine’s stomach.  
  
“Understatement of the year, but you should probably talk to your girlfriend about this soon. It sounded serious. Later.”  
  
“Not my girlfriend,” Aomine calls, hands still behind his head.

* * *

For once, Takao braves the long route home after practice. Tokyo is humid and just short of sweltering on August afternoons; Takao chugs a can of iced tea in about as much time as it takes him to cross a couple streets and conclude that, yeah, his epiphany on the roof wasn’t half bad. He flips his cell phone open, types a short text with his thumb -- and while he waits on Takahashi’s response, he accelerates his pace, stretches his arms, and scours his memory for that _first_ first impression.  
  
Detached. Calculating. Self-assured. Teikou’s Vice Captain had stood in front of Keisei’s Vice Captain as Keisei’s opposite, down to his appearance, facial expressions, and physical handicap. Back then, Takao Kazunari was still the scourge of the lunchtime trading card community. Along with Inoue’s girlfriend from the class down the hall, Takao and his two best friends were their middle school’s Elite Four: Takao, Aoki, Sung, and Inoue, in descending order. They had a great run -- until Inoue broke up with Sung and Aoki joined the basketball team, anyway.  
  
“Cheer _up_ , Makoto, for shit’s sake. She wasn’t even that pretty.”  
  
“Says the guy who seized his chance to ask her out the second she dumped his best friend only to get rejec -- ”  
  
“Would you _stop_ bringing that up, Kazunari?! In any case, Makoto, you know what I think would do you some good? Getting your frustration out with a little exercise.”  
  
“Is this about the basketball team _again_? Susumu, I can’t even jog upstairs in my own house without feeling breathless. They’d never take me off the bench.”  
  
“Would, too! The Captain’s super chill. He doesn’t care if you’re totally useless. Come on, please -- ”  
  
“Help me out here, Kazunari.”  
  
“Hmm... I think we could use a change of pace, actually. My backflips are getting pretty stale.”  
  
“The fact that backflips have literally nothing to do with basketball aside -- ”  
  
\-- Inoue and Takao joined Aoki on court midway through their first year of middle school. To Takao’s surprise, he found that he enjoyed playing basketball with them (and Keisei’s “super chill” captain, Takahashi Kazuo) nearly as much as he’d liked battling their Pokémon. The sport called for as much strategy and quick-thinking as a good children’s card game, and in his second year on the team, Takao’s aptitude for both landed him the Vice Captainship.  
  
Before playing Teikou, Keisei’s record had seemed solid enough: A greater average of wins to losses, a steady stream of matches and friendlies with neighboring schools, and -- at the time -- their first shot at a championship title.  
  
“Hair like that can’t be natural, right?” Aoki had muttered during Keisei’s pre-qualification-game huddle.  
  
“I mean, what are the chances you’d get a group of guys like that on the same team if it were?”  
  
“Don’t look at me, Inoue,” Takahashi had said before breaking into a grin. “Let’s do our best.”  
  
They were decimated.  
  
Takao still remembers what he felt when he bowed in front of Midorima once the match was over. He had blinked away dazed tears, balled his hands into fists, contemplated Midorima with the fierceness of a person facing some devastating injustice. But the injustice hadn’t been that Midorima was _so good_ , no. Neither had Takao’s anger been directed towards himself nor any tangible opponent or teammate. Its source was the game itself. Keisei hadn’t played against Teikou that afternoon. For all Teikou was concerned, Keisei hadn’t even shown up to court.  
  
It was the mismatch that had upset Takao. It was the disparity between himself and Midorima Shintarou that had stung the most.  
  
 _Bzzz. Bzzz._  
  
from: Takahashi Kazuo  
to: Takao Kazunari  
  
 _Hey! Sorry it took me forever to get back to you. We’re not supposed to use our cell phones while we’re at the training camp, so I had to sneak it with me to the bathroom...._  
  
 _Anyway, yeah, I’m free next week! I’ll call you in a couple days and we’ll pick a time and meeting place. Hope Touou’s treating you okay. (Better than Shuutoku’s treating me lately, at any rate....)_  
  
 _Well, that settles it_ , Takao thinks. He dials Midorima’s number as he turns a corner, holds his breath while the line connects.  
  
Midorima picks up the phone three rings later.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
Takao exhales. It’s as terse and tense a greeting as he’d expected.  
  
“Hello, hello!” A smile, an injection of enthusiasm. “Remember me?”  
  
Midorima actually tries to recall if they’ve ever spoken before.  
  
“I’ll give you a hint,” Takao says. “Tou -- ”  
  
“Takao Kazunari,” Midorima finishes. “Yes, I remember you. What do you want?”  
  
“I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me, seeing as you never called.” A beat passes before Takao smirks. “Just kidding! Are you busy tomorrow?”  
  
Silence.  
  
“That’s not a joke,” Takao clarifies.  
  
“I have some free time,” Midorima says. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“No reason, really.” Takao shrugs, keeps his tone casual as his eyes narrow. “If you have nothing better to do, wanna meet me at the park by Shuutoku? Late afternoon?”  
  
“Isn’t that a little out of the way for you?”  
  
“Hey, for all you know, I could be staying at my dad’s tomorrow.”  
  
Having successfully suppressed Midorima’s suspicion with embarrassment, Takao fiddles with the strap of his sports bag, takes care to step on every pavement crack.  
  
“.... I won’t stay for long.”  
  
“Of course,” Takao trills. “See you.”  
  
 _So you’re not with Shuutoku at their training camp, just like I thought._

* * *

Midorima meets Takao by the park’s basketball court shortly after 4pm the next day. It takes him a few moments’ squinting to spot Takao crouching by the court’s edge, rolling a basketball between his feet and watching elementary schoolers practice their lay-ups. Midorima dodges a couple stray toddlers as he passes the park’s hideous playground complex; weaves through younger, less colorful variations of Kise and Aomine playing one-on-one; and stops a few feet in front of Takao, arms crossed.  
  
“Yo.” Takao greets Midorima with his usual simper. He sneaks the briefest of glances at Midorima’s untaped left hand as he stands, basketball held in the crook of his arm. “Doing well, I hope?”  
  
“Quite,” Midorima says, and makes it a point to adjust his glasses with the same hand that had drawn Takao’s attention seconds earlier.  
  
“You saw me?” Takao sighs. “I won’t waste your time or mine with more small talk, then.”  
  
Midorima watches Takao pivot around and take some small steps forward while dribbling the basketball -- in time with his thoughts, to fill what would’ve otherwise become silence?  
  
 _I shouldn’t have come_ , Midorima thinks. He shouldn’t have come because he’s well aware now of what Takao intends to address today; and he neither wants to know why Takao, too, cares about what he does with his spare time, nor whom tipped Takao off and how, nor what Takao expects to accomplish by --  
  
“A little birdie told me,” Takao begins, back still to Midorima, “that you’re thinking of quitting your school’s basketball team. I believed her, obviously, but I wanted to make sure for myself. So yesterday I said, _Alright, if Midorima agrees to hang out at the park tomorrow, I’ll bring this up to him_ \-- ‘cause that would mean you’ve pretty much made your decision, right? No more Shuutoku for you. Here’s the thing, though....”  
  
Takao turns -- still dribbling -- to stare squarely at Midorima. “I can’t let you do that.”  
  
Against a backdrop of little boys’ shouts and girls’ cheers, Midorima watches Takao’s face take on a lopsided smile, feels his own calm expression contort with irritation as he closes the distance between them.  
  
“I will tolerate this behavior from teammates,” Midorima starts, quietly. “I will tolerate it from superiors and I will tolerate it from those I trust and respect, but who are _you_ , Takao Kazunari, to tell me what I can and cannot do?”  
  
Takao looks him in the eye, still stubbornly smiling.  
  
“Ahh, then it must be because of _Touou_ that you knew my name, not Keisei. I never expected to tell you what I’m about to say, Midorima, not in a million years, but it’s not for your sake that I can’t let you quit Shuutoku. I reached the goal I set for myself when we played a couple months ago, too, so it’s not for mine, either.”  
  
“It’s a little more complicated than all that,” Takao says. “You see, I’d never be able to live with myself if I didn’t at least _try_ to get the guy who made me love this sport to love it, too.”  
  
Suddenly, Midorima tastes tea. He listens to Takao while seeing red and shogi pieces, mistakes the bouncing of basketballs around him for their characteristic snaps.  
  
“Before I left Keisei’s team, I was its Vice Captain,” Takao explains. “Friendly, spontaneous, kind of insecure: Class clowns always fit that profile. My group didn’t care about much except having a ball -- that was pretty funny, come on -- and making fun of whomever we’d played against afterwards. We weren’t terrible, but we weren’t the pinnacle of middle school basketball, either. Getting destroyed by Teikou on the verge of qualifying for a major competition was a good wake-up call.”  
  
Takao tosses the basketball to his other hand, observes it as it spins on his index finger. “I wondered for a while why that game with you had bothered me so much. We’d never lost that badly before, sure, but I’d never cared much about winning or losing until then, either. Which is when I realized two things -- ”  
  
 _Think on it._  
  
“-- I wanted to play at your level, and I wanted to play at your level because I’d come to love the game, independently of my teammates and any potential championship titles.”  
  
 _When you made first string at Teikou, you tied our fates to yours._  
  
Takao catches the ball between both hands, grins at Midorima. “So I quit! I knew that there were some things I needed to work on by myself if I ever hoped to beat you, and I did, and they worked. I was happy. But it surprised me, too, that I still felt unsatisfied. These past few months, I’ve thought a lot about what I want out of this game, and it’s something I can’t find by myself anymore. My team won’t help me with that, your team won’t help you with that, so....”  
  
 _We may no longer play together, but our improvement continues to depend upon each other._  
  
“.... Maybe I can help you, and you can help me.”  
  
 _Can you in good conscience quit Shuutoku’s basketball team and jeopardize our growth?_  
  
“Well? Wanna play one-on-one? And don’t give me some dumb excuse like ‘I’m out of practice;’ that doesn’t work for raw talent.”  
  
Takao offers Midorima the ball.


End file.
